Chapter 1: Signed in Blood

The leather seat stuck to the backs of my thighs even though the AC blasted like we were trying to freeze hell itself. I kept my arms crossed tight, paint-stained knuckles aching, while the gray ribbon of I-5 whipped past outside. Griffin Radcliffe drove like the road owed him money, his wrist flexing on the steering wheel so that stupid expensive watch kept catching the weak Seattle sun.

I wanted to fling the watch out the window. Or maybe just fling myself.

He hadn't said a word since we left the lawyer's office in Portland. Three hours of silence that sat on my chest until breathing felt like work. Mom's trembling hands when she'd hugged me goodbye kept flashing behind my eyes. She already knew I'd cave.

"You signed," Griffin said at last, voice low and clipped. "It's done."

I bit my lower lip hard enough to taste copper. "Congratulations. You've officially purchased a wife. Should I throw in a toaster?"

His jaw clenched three times in quick succession. I filed it away for my mental sketchbook: Griffin Radcliffe, Asshole Edition, Number Forty-Seven. Olive skin, dark wavy hair, brown eyes that could close million-dollar deals with one look. The man who'd carved up my family's empire like it was yesterday's stock report.

The memory slammed into me without warning. Five years ago at that gala, Dad's face turning the color of old paper while Griffin announced the takeover from the podium like he was unveiling a new phone. I'd been twenty-three, paint still under my nails, watching my world get dismantled between canapés and small talk.

"Your father made choices," he said now, like he could hear my thoughts.

"My father is dead." The words came out harsher than I meant. "Let's not pretend you give a shit about his choices now that you've collected your prize."

The estate appeared through the trees, all glass and steel and sharp angles screaming money. My bare feet already regretted kicking off my boots back in Portland. The cold marble under my soles had felt like defiance at the time. Now it just felt stupid.

Griffin pulled into the circular drive with zero wasted motion. The engine died. Neither of us moved.

"Ground rules," he started.

"Oh good. I love rules from the man who just legally blackmailed me into his bed."

His head snapped toward me. Those eyes pinned me to the seat, and for one stupid heartbeat heat flared low in my belly. The same spark I'd felt at the gala when he'd looked at me across the crowd like I was something worth breaking.

"You stay on your side," he continued as if I hadn't spoken. "We maintain appearances in public. No one knows this is anything but a love match. And you will not go through my things."

I laughed. It sounded ugly. "Worried I'll find your collection of hearts you've ripped out? Or just the one that used to belong to my family?"

He exhaled through his nose, almost human, then climbed out and came around to my side. When he opened my door I stayed put, staring at his outstretched hand.

"Margaret."

The way he said my name, all gravel and command, made my pulse jump against my throat. I took his hand anyway. His palm was warm, calluses rough from those boxing sessions. The contact sent something traitorous racing under my skin.

The marble sucked heat from my bare feet as we crossed the threshold. Everything smelled like cedar and money. A woman in a crisp uniform appeared, took my single duffel with polite disdain, and murmured something about the master suite.

The room was bigger than my entire Portland loft. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over misty evergreens that disappeared into fog. And there in the middle, dominating everything like a dare, sat one massive bed.

I wrapped my arms around my middle. The grief I'd been shoving down since Dad's funeral three weeks ago punched up through my ribs. He'd done this. Sold me to the enemy in his will like I was collateral.

"I need a minute," I said. My voice cracked on the last word.

Griffin watched me from the doorway, hands in his pockets. For a second I thought he might say something decent. Instead he just nodded once, jaw tight, and stepped back.

"Dinner's at eight. Try not to burn the place down."

The door clicked shut. I slid down the nearest wall, knees to my chest, forehead pressed to my paint-stained jeans. The cold marble felt right. It matched the hollow spot where my choices used to live.

My phone buzzed. Mom. Three heart emojis and one line: Your father loved you, Maggie. This was his final gift.

"Some gift," I whispered.

I stayed there until my ass went numb, then forced myself up. The walk-in closet was already stocked with clothes in my size. Creepy as hell. I grabbed my favorite oversized sweater with the hole in the elbow and locked myself in the ridiculous bathroom.

Steam filled the space while I stared at my reflection. Green eyes, messy auburn waves, fair skin that showed every flush. I looked like a wild animal someone had tried to stuff into designer packaging. Good. Let me be inconvenient.

By the time I came out, a tray had appeared with red wine and caviar. I ignored it, dug cold pizza from my bag, and ate it standing at the window. The fog rolled through the trees like it wanted to swallow the house whole.

Somewhere in this monstrosity, Griffin was probably reviewing contracts or plotting world domination. The thought made my stomach twist in ways that had nothing to do with pepperoni. I kept remembering how steady his hand had felt around mine.

"Get it together, Stavros," I muttered, using my old name like a shield. "Radcliffe. You're Margaret Radcliffe now. Jesus."

I paced the room, bare feet slapping marble and leaving faint blue smudges. Let the staff see I was here. Let them know I wouldn't fade quietly.

The door opened without a knock. Griffin stood there in a fresh shirt, sleeves rolled up to show forearms that had no business looking that capable. His eyes flicked from me to the pizza box to the paint on his floor.

"Comfortable?" The dry edge in his voice almost sounded like humor.

"Ecstatic. Nothing says true love like being legally required to sleep with your family's destroyer."

He stepped inside and closed the door. The room shrank. When he loosened his tie I had to look away, focusing on my own racing pulse instead.

"This isn't about love," he said quietly. "It's about protecting what's left of your mother. You know that."

"Don't." The word came out sharp. "Don't pretend this is some noble sacrifice. You get a shiny new wife for the board and I get to watch Mom lose everything if I don't play along."

His jaw clenched three times. I was keeping score.

"You think I wanted this?" Something flickered across his face. "Your father left me no choice either."

That stopped me cold. I searched his expression. "What the hell does that mean?"

He didn't answer. Just crossed to the nightstand and set his watch down with precise movements, like the conversation had never happened. The silence stretched between us, thick enough to choke on.

I wanted to push. Wanted to demand answers about the files Mom kept hinting at. Instead I watched him roll his shoulders, shirt pulling tight across muscle, and my mouth went dry.

"Ground rules," he said again, turning to face me. His eyes had gone almost black in the dimming light. "You stay on your side of the bed. I don't share."

The lie sat between us like a third person. I saw it in the way his gaze dropped to my mouth for half a second. In the way his fingers flexed like he was fighting the urge to reach for me.

I stepped closer without meaning to. Close enough to smell his cologne and the soap he'd used. Close enough to see the faint scar along his jaw.

"And if I don't?" My voice came out breathier than I liked. "What then, husband?"

His hand came up, hovering near my face. The heat of his palm ghosted across my cheek and my heart tried to climb out of my chest.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand. Victor Lang's name lit up the screen. Griffin's expression shuttered completely. He stepped back, the moment shattering.

"I have calls to make," he said, already turning away. "Try to get some sleep."

The door closed behind him. I stood there with my heart racing and cold pizza congealing in my stomach, wondering how many more nights like this I could survive before I either killed him or did something much worse.

My sketchbook was in my bag. I pulled it out with shaking hands and let the charcoal fly across the page, capturing the sharp line of his jaw and the way his eyes had gone flat. When I finished I stared at the portrait until my chest hurt.

Then I wrote across the bottom in angry slashes: Enemy. Husband. Liar.

I crawled onto my side of the bed fully clothed and stared at the ceiling. The bed dipped sometime later. I kept my breathing even, pretending to be asleep as Griffin slid under the covers on his side.

The space between us felt electric. I turned my head just enough to watch the shadow of his profile in the dark, dread and something far more dangerous twisting in my gut.

How long could we both keep pretending this was only about the will?